


Souvenirs

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28075476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: Napoleon answered with a small smile and a grazing of his right hand over Illya’s scraped left cheek. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by."Illya’s eyebrows crashed in on themselves and his lips parted. He panted shallow breaths into the scant space between them. This time both men leaned in, but just before he closed his eyes to enjoy the moment, Illya glanced over Napoleon’s shoulder and his gaze landed on the blue disc.He still couldn’t entirely trust this man, he reminded himself. He corrected course, lips landing on the other man’s ear instead of his mouth.“Is only fair I give you souvenir as well.”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Souvenirs

Sweaty and shaking with the remains of the adrenaline-fueled destruction of his hotel room, Illya raised his fist, clenched it tighter to banish the last vestiges of his tremor, and knocked on the door to room 803.

“Come in,” Napoleon’s manicured voice called. Illya fought the impulse to smile. He was here to fulfill his mission, not to see a friend. He would do his duty, the same as always.

If it kept him free of the gulag, to which so many of his family’s acts--and his own desires--could easily consign him, he would do anything they asked. 

His keen eyes scanned the room as he entered. Napoleon was at the bed, facing away as he tidily packed his suitcase. And there was the disc, barely tucked under the vest Solo had laid out to wear as he traveled.

Illya poured himself the offered drink and made sure to prepare a second glass. It would keep Napoleon blind to his intentions. And he would probably be thirsty after the confrontation.

“Gonna miss working with you, Peril,” Napoleon threw casually over his shoulder as he continued to shuffle the items in his suitcase. Illya stood as still as possible, gun holster in easy reach, every muscle tensed with the potential energy he would need to kill the man.

He blinked as memories from the past week flew across his mind. This was not just a man. _This_ man had saved him from drowning, had chased after Gaby with passion and dedication equal to his own. Illya had only yesterday saved Napoleon from electrocution. 

But those acts of heroism weren’t personally meaningful, he reminded himself. The success of the team is paramount to any agent, said the voice deep in his mind, the Russian words made rough by years of cigars. Criticism at any doubts about how the Empire was governed echoed after them.

Napoleon had saved him for the sake of the mission. It was transactional. There was no friendship involved, certainly no feelings. No _unmet desires._

“I’ll miss you too, Cowboy,” he whispered.

And with that, the moment of decision was upon them. Napoleon reached under a garment in his suitcase and Illya mirrored the movement, reaching for his silenced Makarov. He held his breath automatically, as he always did. Today it would keep his chest from hitching with emotion. He should not feel loss at the possibility of a further relationship with an American spy. It was not the Russian way.

Napoleon turned and, in the same graceful movement, lobbed something toward him. His well-trained reflex was to catch it without looking, but the familiar feel of the band and the scuffed face made him glance down in surprise. 

It was his father’s watch. The only artifact Illya had to remind him he was human. He quickly fastened it onto his wrist and looked up at Napoleon, a question in his eyes. _Why?_

The gaze he met showed that the American recognized humanity in Illya. The same look had passed between them when they finally caught up to Gaby’s captor after the race across the muddy hills.

Illya took four brisk steps across the room and grabbed the smug American’s face, holding it between his palms, thumbs under the chin. His eyes dropped to the other man’s lips, but he stopped his sway forward and looked back up. He wanted an explanation.

“It was one of the guards on the island. You went right past, half mad over Gaby. It just _caught my eye._ ” Napoleon shrugged, his calm delivery confirming that he feared no harm from Illya’s hands.

Illya shook his head _No_. That wasn’t the explanation he wanted. 

Napoleon answered with a small smile and a grazing of his right hand over Illya’s scraped left cheek. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

Illya’s eyebrows crashed in on themselves and his lips parted. He panted shallow breaths into the scant space between them. This time both men leaned in, but just before he closed his eyes to enjoy the moment, Illya glanced over Napoleon’s shoulder and his gaze landed on the blue disc.

He still couldn’t entirely trust this man, he reminded himself. He corrected course, lips landing on the other man’s ear instead of his mouth.

“Is only fair I give you souvenir as well.” 

Napoleon’s face twisted in surprise then fear as Illya gripped his torso, spinning him precisely 180 degrees and forcing his chest to the soft surface of the bed. Illya stepped into place behind him, aligning his hips with Napoleon’s buttocks and thrusting hard, seeking friction and warmth. 

Illya ran his violence-rougheded hands down the fine fabric of Napoleon’s shirt, pulling the tails from his trousers, then pushing them back up, feeling bare skin. The American gasped. Illya kicked his feet apart then leaned down, chest to back. Napoleon turned his face and spoke. Illya felt the lips against his cheek form the words _Oh fuck_ rather than heard them. 

“ _Da?_ ” he asked. Napoleon pushed back into his hardness as an answer. 

Illya stood up quickly, bringing hands to his belt. He quickly divested himself of his clothing before assisting the other man with his. He reached around and cupped Napoleon’s entire cock and balls in one large hand, and he gasped and flailed, hands skittering across the bedclothes, knocking the disc and his suitcase to the floor. 

“What are you reaching for, Cowboy?” Illya let a fond laugh cross his lips and Napoleon huffed.

“Toiletry kit. Vaseline…”

In answer, Illya ran a fingertip from behind Napoleon’s balls up to his entrance. It felt warm and very tight.

“First part of souvenir.” He gathered spit in his cheeks and released it in a stream onto the other man’s cleft. Napoleon made a desperate noise as Illya gathered moisture onto his fingertip and worked the digit inside.

It was fast and dirty from there, Illya hurrying through the preparation. One finger turned to two then to three and it had to hurt but the violence of their desire, the relief of being alive, of surviving the mission and each other, layered even more pleasure atop the slight pain. 

The pleasure was so great, indeed, that when Illya, in his quest for a better angle, stepped on the disc and smashed it with his foot, neither of them noticed. 

They finished in tandem and fell forward together, Illya’s weight crushing Napoleon for a moment before he pulled out and rolled aside. Napoleon opened his eyes from where his face was half-buried in a pillow and raised his eyebrows. Illya met his gaze, smirked, and declared, “Second part of souvenir.” 

Napoleon laughed as he drew himself to unsteady hands and knees, then shuffled off the bed and made his way to the shower. “Let me get cleaned up, then we can have that drink.”

Napoleon was mid-way through soaping himself up when he realized his absolute failure. He’d left the disc, the ultimate point of this goddamned fucking mission, with an enemy spy. He quickly rinsed and jumped out of the shower, wrapping himself in a robe and barging out of the bathroom.

But from the balcony outside, he could hear a slight whirring sound. He walked out to find Illya pulling the tape from the disc slowly, as if relishing the motion, and piling it into a small mound in a hotel ashtray.

Napoleon breathed out, relieved, and walked outside to the taller man. He placed hands on his waist and stood on his toes to press a kiss to his nape. He saw the tips of Illya’s ears turn pink and so kissed one of them as well.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. My lighter is in my jacket on the coat tree.”

Illya turned to watch him go as he fairly sashayed back into the bathroom. He was smiling as he raised the scotch to his mouth, licking out his tongue to capture another swallow of the fragrant liquid when Napoleon turned to glance back. It was the American’s turn to blush.

Since there was no package to deliver now, there was no rush. He’d get dressed then join his partner for a slow glass of whisky and some balcony sightseeing. Rome was beautiful this time of year.

**Author's Note:**

> Info on Illya's gun gleaned from http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Man_from_U.N.C.L.E.,_The_(2015)
> 
> I already wrote an Illya/Gaby fic, so here's the other part of the polyamorous V, although I'm pretty sure there would be some threesome action. I mean, have you *seen* the three of them together? The hotness, the chemistry. Truly, a most bisexual movie.
> 
> There's one more fic in my back catalog, but I believe it needs a bit more editing than the rest of these did, so it might be a bit. But it's Daria femslash, so it's worth the wait.


End file.
